Chapter One
Another howling gale of wind swept over his face. The date of this raid had been chosen carefully; the blizzard slowed their march, but did not stop them. The dragons, on the other hand, would have to cope with frozen wing membranes and weakened, sputtering gouts of heat from their chilled throats. He walked beside the Husky guide, a short man compared to the virility of the wolf's frame. His height was deceptive, as was well evidenced in their earlier hunt. Whereas the Wolves favored a long stride that left their foreclaws ready for combat, the Huskies would fall into a loping, quadrupedal gait that made their prey more often meet their end from a quick snap of their powerful jaws. While he had been skeptical of the grizzled old Husky, Prince lavur Arós had marveled at the speed and efficiency with which he cornered and felled a lone deer that had been foraging.
A short jerk from his companion returned lavur to the task at hand. The Husky had halted suddenly at a barren tree that stood starkly from the forests edge. He held up his arm to bring the column to a halt, and walked up to the tree, comfortable, as if greeting an old ally. Slowly, he allowed his paw to glide over the gnarled bark. Twice he did this, closing his eyes and focusing intently. He motioned the prince closer, as he scored a section of the bark. As he peeled away the bark, he gestured to a small set of coded scrawl near a diagram. As a member of the royal family, lavur was privy to mythically unbreakable Husky code. The writing indicated that their quarry lay one thousand paces directly south-east from their position, and detailed the weaknesses of the enemy camp. It seemed that the dragons were most vulnerable at noon, when they would call the majority of their forces into the barracks for a meal, leaving the youngest to watch and curse in the cold.
The Husky turned an expectant gaze to lavur, who nodded. The Husky carefully licked off the berry juice that the code had been scrawled in, and smoothing the bark back into place. lavur marveled at the intricacies of the Huskies ability for espionage. Their wanderlust and lifestyle meant that Huskies were ubiquitous, if scarcely noticeable unless one looked closely, in the north. All the same, they communicated with a universal code, left on ancient trees whose spirits the Huskies revered. A superstitious, but very naturalist, people, the Huskies trusted only their revered, eternal spirits to bear their messages. lavur had wondered why his father, Sigmund, had trusted the Huskies with state secrets until he had begun working with them. As the heir apparent, tradition dictated that lavur would captain the king's legendary White Fangs to prove both his ability to lead and his valor.
The only exception made for the young prince was one of the solemn and proud Samoyeds would accompany him. As a gesture of good will between the races, Sigmund had taken a Samoyed as his body guard, advisor, and very dear friend. His father had raised lavur and Mikla in kind as cubs, and they had been inseparable since.
The Samoyeds had seamlessly integrated into Wolfen society; unlikes the wandering Huskies, the Samoyeds were very similar in lifestyle to Wolves. Though the races had their diffences, the Samoyeds were accepted as brothers, although much more dour than some might prefer. What was always accepted was their fierce loyalty to king and country as well as their indomitable spirit and military prowess. The Samoyeds might have conquered the other canines and the dragons if not for the very low rate of childbirth in the Samoyed community. Tradition had long dictated for them that it was anathema to pair with any but your very soul mate, and in more barbaric times, children of lust and imperfect love had been exposed to appease the angry gods.
The old Husky led unerringly, and shortly the dragon camp drew close. A short wall of sharpened trunks surrounded the camp on three sides, with one unbarred gate granting both entrance and exit. As the sun neared its zenith overhead, the Fangs prepared for combat. Their arms were all sparsely martial: the wolves fought with wrist-mounted claws that capitalized on their natural fighting style while allowing for the cutting power of forged steel. He lone Husky fought with his wits and jaws: he brought the traditional hunting armaments consisting of spiked bolos as well as a set of traps he kept in his pack. Mikla and his Samoyeds favored long and throwing spears both, as well as axes and shields for close combat.
Scanning the troop movements, lavur was both thrilled and alarmed to note a very large contingent of dragons, with extra guards posted over a clearing in the camp. Although he could not see inside from his vantage point, he noted that a very large number of prisoners must be in the camp. With fury he recalled the reports that had spread insidiously, like a contagion, across Aróese of smaller settlements raised, with the women and young men carried off, and the old, young, and infirm left to burn. It was well known that the dragons had exotic lusts that led them to interracial deviance that was accepted, but very uncommon in Aróesian society. A dubiously preferable fate was to be assigned to the dragon's bloody arenas and deep mines. The dragon's physicality lent itself poorly to mining and smithing, so it fell unto captives and the subjugated foxes to produce the large metal plates that the dragons wore to augment their already resilient scales as well as the garish metal-clad structures that the dragons so loved.
lavur had no great hopes to rescue any foxes. Much were they reviled in Aróesian society; they had surrendered very quickly, as they had been the first kingdom in the east to be conquered. Sigmund was said to have a soft place in his heart for foxes, as captives were always well treated, but society at large held a certain silent disdain for the downtrodden foxes. Sigmund himself, their dauntless leader, had been the one reason the one reason that their kingdom remained free, yet fox was still the mocking name that Wolfen drill sergeants used to mock new recruits.
lavur watched as his the sun finally drew overhead, a beacon that signaled the attack. Behind him, the Fangs silently followed as they rushed to overtake the new guards that came, cursing bitterly, to replace the older guards. The whelps had scarcely taken their post before claw met throat, spear pierced chest, and ravening claws tasted lifeblood. The prison guards were the next to fall, as they were the last to remain outside. These proved to be more challenging, as one ran off to raise the alarm. The canny old Husky had stealthily cloven his horn in twain, and as he gazed on in horror his life met its end to a Samoyed axe. The thrill of battle had excited the troops considerably; bloodlust was in their eyes, and lavur understood their eagerness to kill. He motioned quietly for the troops to take position: lavur, Mikla, and the old Husky would enter from the front, forcing the dragons to retreat from their fierce battle cry. Two contingents of veteran wolves would then rush in from the sides, forming a line to push back the dragons. The last strike of the hammer would come from behind; the Samoyeds would form a wedge and drive towards the Wolfen line, dividing and slaughtering the dragons. It was an old tactic for assaulting a dining hall, pioneered in the Dark Ages of civil strife by the Wolfen Chieftan Gunmundur.
Strength flooded his body. The rage of his ancestors filled him. Every drill, every swipe of his claw, every charred corpse he had seen braced him for the assault. The wolves had a very simple battle cry; they will simply pay clarion respect to whosoever they deem their leader. Some will call upon ancestors, kings, or even the gods. The rage that lavur felt, he felt for his land. The souls of the dead cried for punishment, and he embraced his position of arbiter of death. Filling his lungs with the chill air, his battle cry was long and loud.
"For Aróese! For Sigmund!"
On that signal he beat aside the wolf-pelt flap and flew into the shocked dragons. The slowest to reaction met a quick end at his claws; lavur was an artisan of battle, deftly shredding throats ad piercing hearts. Mikla quietly dealt death in generous portions, giving the dragons another meal to gorge upon. The old Husky flitted in and out of view, punishing harshly any mistake the enemy made. Cowards broke upon his jaws and his muzzle drank deeply of the blood of his foes.
lavur and his two companions were quickly met by the dual files of Wolfen infantry, pushing back the more veteran dragons that had braced to resist. The defiant roars of the enemies had brought forth shrieking gouts of flame, slowing the advance of the wolves. Even as the lines met, even as claw met claw and life met end did the Samoyed wedge decimate the enemy's rear. The dragons, sleepy from their meal and dazed by the punishing assault, fell as so many trees before an avalanche as they broke upon the anvil of their enemies.
Quickly ending the final life of a final black dragon, lavur surveyed the carnage. The wolves had payed in kind for their brave advance; though their wrist-mounted claws were outfitted with easily discarded shields for the fire, three lay dead. Two had their necks crushed in ravening jaws, while the last had his muzzle burned beyond recognition. One more lay in agony, tended only by the gentle old Husky. A swig of an amber flask would quiet the moans and grant slumber serene, but no canine force could repair his broken frame. The Husky softly closed the eyes of his departed comrade, and carefully wrote the names of the fallen in his logbook.
lavur already knew what he would say to honor his men as he stood at their pyres.